Confessions of a Death Eater
by TnT6713
Summary: "She's all chocolate and lollipops and bubblegum, ice cream and moonlight and magic, pure magic." Gwenog/Regulus. Pure fluff.


Shallow breathing.

Her body is pressed against yours, limp and soft and quiet. Her brown hair spills over her shoulder, shining in the little bits of moonlight that filter in from your bedroom window. It's late, immeasurably so. If you turned around, you would be able to see the clock. But you don't want to turn around; you're comfortable.

She doesn't have any of that attitude when she's asleep, that signature Gwenog flair that you love so much. She's so calm, so peaceful. She's still so beautiful.

She's not the same when she's asleep.

She's not asleep.

You can tell. There's a nervous energy that radiates from her skin, sparking the air with the taste of copper.

"Gwen," you whisper, smashing the silence. She rolls over, dark chocolate eyes staring into your own. She thought you were sleeping. She thought she was sleeping, too.

"Regulus."

"Can't sleep?"

"Not at all," she breathes, reaching out to tuck a piece of stray hair behind your ear. She lethargically plays with it for a minute, and the dark strands must contrast beautifully against her skin. But you can't see. Your eyes are, foolishly enough, in the front of your head.

You gingerly take her hand, intertwining your fingers, and bring it from your ear to your lips. A gentle kiss on her knuckles, and you can feel her smile in the darkness. It's moments like this, you tell yourself. It's moments like this that you live for. It's moments like this when the world stops existing and it's just you and her, together, an infinity of lingering touches and chaste kisses and closeness. It's moments like this when you can pretend the mark on your left forearm doesn't exist.

"Tell me a story," she says. You feel yourself chuckle, but the sound doesn't leave your throat.

You wrap one arm around her waist, pulling her impossibly close, and lean your forehead on her shoulder. You inhale deeply, attempting to completely immerse yourself in her scent. And what a heavenly scent it is. She's all chocolate and lollipops and bubblegum, ice cream and moonlight and magic, pure magic. So good it'll make you sick, just so it can nurse you back to health again. This is where you want to be. Here, with her, just like this, forever, with her invisible freckles and delightful giggle and intoxicating scent and hidden tattoo, with her hair and her face and her voice and her eyes, which you have gotten lost in so many times before. You could get drunk just off of her presence.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

"I don't know any good stories," you mumble, pressing a light kiss to the spot where her neck meets her shoulder. She hums her approval, reaching for your left arm. "I can tell you a secret, though."

"Tell me a secret, then."

Her fingers trace your Dark Mark, pressing ever so slightly. It tickles. Usually, you would pull her hand away, tell her it's sensitive, tell her you'd rather pretend it's not there. You don't stop her this time, though. You feel her trace the skull, the snake, the tongue, the teeth, the eyes. It's as if her touch has solidified the pattern on your skin; it's real now.

"I've never killed anyone."

She pauses. You can hear the frown in her voice. Sad candy, green tea. That's what her frowns sound like, what her voice tastes like. Sad candy and green tea. She's perfect.

"Everyone says you did."

"I know."

"_You_ say you did."

"I know."

You nuzzle her neck. She sighs, sleepless hazelnuts and more green tea. She always tastes like green tea. It's a bittersweet confession, a double-edged sword. You, Regulus Black, are not a killer. You, Regulus Black, have been living a lie.

Not a groundbreaking lie, not a particularly scandalous lie, but a non-truth nonetheless.

_Non-truth_. It sounds strange in your mind. Maybe it will feel better in your mouth.

"Non-truth."

"Sorry?"

"Nothing."

She rakes her fingers through your hair, gently scratching your scalp. It feels like home. Real home—not this musty house, not the shrill voices of your parents in the mornings, not the pretentious and foreboding tapestry that looms in the drawing room—home.

"Why would you say you did if you didn't, though?" she muses.

You shrug, as if it would make a difference. "Even if I didn't say it, other people would have."

"And a rumor can't hurt you if you're the one who started it." The frown is still in her voice, but it's so much tenderer now. So much softer, so much kinder, so much warmer.

She's a wildfire.

She's _your_ wildfire.

"It's going to happen eventually," the words stumble from your tongue before you can stop them. "I can't avoid it forever."

"Why hasn't it already? I mean, you've had that mark for months now."

She doesn't support the cause. She doesn't believe in blood purity or the sanctity of magic. She doesn't support the war. But she sure as hell supports you. And really, that's all you need.

"Too young. I haven't had much time for training or anything, 'cause of school. In November, after I turn eighteen, I'll probably start."

But November is a long time away. You don't want it to come just yet; you want to stay here, with her, just like this, for as long as you can. You want more moments like this. You want to stay this pure and perfect forever.

She yawns. You smile.

"Sleepy yet?"

"Yeah. Maybe this time I'll actually get some rest."

You run your fingers through her hair, smoothing it back from her face. She's exquisite.

"Goodnight, Gwen."

"Goodnight, Reg."

She rolls over, facing away from you. You pull yourself closer, wrapping an arm securely around her waist, and kiss her shoulder once more.

You relax onto your pillow, letting your eyes slip closed.

Gwenog Jones, your green tea wildfire.

She's all chocolate and lollipops and bubblegum, ice cream and moonlight and magic, pure magic.

You can't imagine loving anyone the way you love her.


End file.
